Taming an Impossible Rogue (2 page)

“I thought you might. That five thousand pounds you’ve been asking me to give you for the past four years, perhaps?”

“That would suffice.” Hm. He hadn’t thought it would be that simple. Which meant that Fenton wanted Lady Camille Pryce more badly than he cared to admit. “If accompanied by an additional five thousand pounds.”

Fenton blinked. “Ten thousand pounds in exchange for bringing a chit to a church? I think not.”

“Keeping in mind the fact that the chit’s been evading you for better than a year already, we both know it’s more complicated than that. But if the price is too steep, find your assistance elsewhere.”

“Damnation, Keating. You’re a villain, you know.”

“So I’ve been told. Do we have an agreement?”

“I wish you’d take that cravat from around your head. It doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

“I’m not here to inspire your confidence. In fact, as you’re the one who came to see me, I’m perfectly content to sit here in my bare feet and glare at you until you stop insulting me and leave.”

“Just say you’ll do it, will you? Some subtlety is required. I don’t trust anyone else to step in as my second.”

“And my poor reputation eclipses your status as a laughingstock.”

“There is that. I doubt many even remember we’re cousins. I hope that’s the case, anyway. But your presence will … shift that negative attention away from me.”

“To gawk at me.” With a sigh, Keating closed his eyes. “I don’t owe you any favors, Stephen. Ten thousand pounds. And yes, you know you may trust me.”

With a hard breath the marquis pushed to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Yes, damn it all. Ten thousand pounds, twenty-four hours after I am a married man.”

Keating rose and shook his cousin’s hand. “I want it in writing. And I expect you to do as I say in this matter. Because clearly following your own advice where this Lady Camille is concerned didn’t go well.”

“Yes, yes. In writing, and I will follow your recommendations. Just be in London by Friday.”

“Just have the agreement ready for my signature when I arrive, or I’ll be leaving again.”

Once Fenton exited, Keating sank back into the near darkness to finish his tea. Returning to London. At one point he’d sworn never to do so. Lady Camille Pryce had just made a great deal of trouble for him, but at the same time perhaps she could be the means to something in which he’d ceased to believe six years ago. Redemption.

Chapter Two

“Who is that sitting at the Duke of Walling’s table?”

Lady Camille Pryce frowned as she glanced up from the morning’s seating plans. “I suggest you occupy yourself with memorizing the tables and stop looking for trouble, Lucille.”

The petite brunette blushed. “I only asked who he is.”

“He’s Lord Patrick Elder,” Camille returned. “He already has a wife and two mistresses. I doubt he’s looking for a third.”

“Cammy.”

“I’m completely serious. And I see that Mr. Alving at the window table is scowling. Go smile at him and see what we might do to alter his expression.”

Lucille chewed on her lip. “Which table?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake
. Stifling her grumbling, Camille handed the seating plans to her companion. “Lord Blansfield is arriving. He’s one of our founding members, so see him to one of the reserved tables. Not near the doorway. He’s very sensitive to drafts.”

“But—”

“Lucille, all that is required of you at the moment is to smile and remember that you are working, not attempting to find a husband or someone to purchase you jewelry.”

That was perhaps a bit harsh, but after three mornings of working with Lucille Hampton, she was beginning to think that the girl would be better suited to a position where she didn’t have to give gentlemen directions. Or do anything other than flutter her eyelashes and giggle.

She stifled her sigh. A year ago, she’d been jumping at her own shadow—and everyone else’s. Considering that Lady Haybury had given her both a roof over her head and a way to earn an income without having to lift her skirts, she was willing to give Lucille another few days to settle into her place at The Tantalus Club. Sometimes a small opportunity could breed a large miracle.

“Mr. Alving,” she said, stopping at his table. “I heard a rumor that our chef is baking a very few peach tarts. Shall I have one set aside for you?”

The Earl of Massing’s uncle narrowed his eyes as he looked up at her. “It’s criminal, the way you chits know every one of our secrets.”

Camille smiled. “Only the gastronomic ones.” And the wagering ones, and the political ones, and most of the bedchamber ones, and who was friends or enemies with whom—but that was not a conversation she wished to have with one of the club’s membership. “I’ll have the tart on your table by the time you’ve finished those poached eggs.”

The request sent to the kitchen, she stood back for a few moments to watch Lucille seat the next groups of men at the tables. Eyelashes continued to flutter, but that was likely an ingrained part of her character. From what Lucille had said of her life before The Tantalus Club, the girl had lived alone with her mother, a woman who’d evidently craved the affection of men to the point that she viewed her own daughter as unwanted competition.

Camille sighed again, glancing about the room at the other dozen women who carried platters, poured drinks, or glided among the tables encouraging those gentlemen who lingered too long either to move into one of the even more comfortable adjoining gaming rooms, or to see to whatever appointments they might have about London this morning.

These ladies had become her friends when she thought she’d lost the opportunity to have any of the kind. Over the past year they’d become her adopted family, women who’d fled their previous lives for a hundred different reasons and found sanctuary at the oddest place imaginable. Silently she sent up thanks once more for The Tantalus Club. And to Lady Cam—no, Haybury now—for allowing her to work in the mornings when the guests were less inebriated and so less likely to speak their minds when they caught sight of her.

Even as she conjured that thought, fingers pinched her backside. Hard.

She yelped, whipping around. Her fists curling in abrupt anger, she looked up at the rotund man who was now gazing at her chest. “Stop that at once,” she snapped.

The fellow lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t ruin that pretty face with talking,” he said. “Come sit with me, and I’ll point out your charms to you.”

“Farness, leave off.” The man behind the ogre, Arthur Smythe, as she recalled, took his friend’s elbow. “This ain’t a bawdy house.”

The ogre kept his gaze on her. “You promised me a grand time at this club of yours, Smythe. Stand back and let me have one.” He took a step closer to her. “You’re the chit who fled from marrying Fenton last year, skirts flapping. I heard you were employed here. I’ll pay you two shillings to sit on my lap. Three, if you wiggle.”

Camille lifted her left hand straight into the air, fingers spread. All the ladies knew the signal, though she, unfortunately, had used it more than any of the others. Even in the less crowded, less inebriated mornings at the club. The perils of a publicly ruined reputation, she supposed. Thankfully, while Lady Haybury might have preferred to have only female employees, it hadn’t taken much to convince her that a handful of very large former boxers might be helpful to have about.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the largest of the Helpful Men, as she and the other girls had come to refer to them, approaching. Only an utter fool would protest Mr. Jacobs guiding him out the doors of the club.

As she faced the ogre again, a fist and a nicely jacketed arm crossed directly in front of her—and connected with Farness’s chin. The round fellow fell to the blue-carpeted floor on his arse.

“When I was last in London,” a low, cultured drawl came from beside her, “men did not insult women in such a manner. I can only assume, then, that either you were mistaken, or you’re not a man.”

The words “Bloody Blackwood” began circling all around her, in the same tone that men generally used to discuss the outcome of the most impossible and deadly of wagers. She sidestepped as the tall, dark-haired man attached to the fist bent down to haul Farness to his feet.

“Which is it, then?” he murmured. “Were you mistaken, or are you simply not a man?”

The ogre raised shaking fingers to touch his cut lip. “Good God. You’re Blackwood. Bloody damned Blackwood.”

“I’m aware of that. Answer my question.”

“Mistaken,” Farness rasped. “I was mistaken.”

“Then I suggest you apologize,” Blackwood pursued, in the same tone he might ask for an additional card while playing vingt-et-un.

“I—”

“To her. Not me.”

Farness looked over at her. “I apologize.”

“For?” her supposed rescuer prompted.

“For … for insulting you, my lady.”

“Well done.” With a light but unmistakably serious shove he deposited Farness into the grip of Mr. Jacobs. “Shall I leave, as well?” he asked, looking over at her for the first time.

Light brown eyes the color of rich tea, one of them circled by a faint, fading bruise, gazed levelly at her. Stifling the abrupt impulse to straighten her hair, she shook her head. “As long as there’s no more punching, I can’t fault you for defending my honor—unnecessary though it was.”

A slow smile touched his mouth. “Thank you. And I’ve never found defending a lady’s honor to be a frivolity.”

Just as she realized that she seemed to be staring at the man, the circle around them stirred and parted. Diane, Lady Haybury, emerged into the small clearing. “I will not have fisticuffs in my club,” she said, ignoring Mr. Farness being led away and instead focusing her attention on the punching man. “Whose guest are you, sir?”

“Mine.”

The Duke of Greaves moved into the circle, his expression as cool as if he were discussing the weather. “Lady Haybury, Keating Blackwood. Keating, the proprietor of this establishment, Lady Haybury.”

Oh, dear
. Camille resisted the urge to back away. She’d only wished to stop a man from pinching her hindquarters. Involving Diane and dukes and disrupting the running of the club … Perhaps she should have simply accepted the pinch for what it was; after all, of all the ladies employed here, her fall from grace was by far the most public. With some of the things said to her back—and even to her face—whenever she ventured out of doors, at the least she should have expected such discourtesy from time to time within her sanctuary’s walls.

Diane glanced in her direction. “Is any further action warranted, Camille?”

She shook her head. “I believe there’s been enough fuss, my lady.” More than enough.

Diane nodded, returning her attention to the rather tall Keating Blackwood. “If His Grace is willing to vouch for you, Mr. Blackwood, then I will allow you to remain. Your motives in this instance seem gentlemanly enough. Have a good day, sir, and enjoy your time in The Tantalus Club.”

Keating Blackwood inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

Feeling in need of a strong glass of spirits, Camille excused herself and returned to her station close to the front door of the dining room. Wasn’t she supposed to have become accustomed to such assaults by now? To being ridiculed and abused because she’d done what she still considered to be the most sensible thing she’d ever managed in her life? For the most part The Tantalus Club had been her safe haven for the past year. An occasional intrusion of … reality, she supposed it was, was still far better than what she faced on the streets of Mayfair. Eventually everyone would forget, or some other scandal would take the place of hers. Or so she’d been hoping for the past year.

Lucille made a small sound behind her. “My goodness,” she chirped. “I had no idea men would fight over us here. That’s delightful.”

Camille frowned. “‘Delightful’ isn’t the word I would choose,” she returned. “I hate this. But the alternative is … well, there truly isn’t one.”

“Couldn’t you have found work as a governess? Perhaps somewhere in the country?” Lucille returned in a hushed voice, pausing to bat her eyes as Lord Haybury strolled into the room.

“Yes, because everything is magical in the country, and they have no newspapers and no one knows how to read or write letters to people in London.” Camille scowled. “How foolish I’ve been not to consider that before!”

“Oh. I merely hadn’t thought much about it. There’s no need to be rude.”

No, there wasn’t. And silly though Lucille was, none of this was her fault. With a sigh, Camille patted her companion on the shoulder. “There’s no reason my problems should trouble you.” She sent a glance about the room, relieved to see that everyone seemed to have returned to their seats. “Now, why don’t you go to Lord William Atherton’s table and mention that Mary Stanford is dealing vingt-et-un at this very moment?”

“How does that signify?”

“It signifies because Lord William Atherton believes Mary to be very pretty, and
I
need their table for the three gentlemen waiting in the foyer.”

“Oh, very well. I have no idea how you keep all of this in your head.” With a flounce of her skirt, Lucille pranced over to the table in the far corner.

As Camille looked up again, faint uneasiness touched her. Keating Blackwood, his gaze on her face, approached her podium without even making a show of being interested in some other possible thing or person in her vicinity. “Thank you again,” she said as he stopped before her, hoping to forestall his asking for a kiss or something as a reward of his so-called heroics. “How are you finding your breakfast?”

“Exceptional,” he replied, leaning an elbow on the lectern the hostesses had taken to using to keep their table charts and lists of names and menus and the preferences of individual gentlemen. “You’re Lady Camille Pryce.”

Hiding her flinch, Camille shuffled through her papers. “That’s hardly a secret. Now, is there something you need? A bottle of wine, perhaps? We have a fine bur—”

“I’m Keating Blackwood.”

“So I heard.” She looked at him for a moment, catching the expectant look on his lean face. “You have a black eye.”